I wanted to totally redo this blog. My goal is smart, funny, flighty, serious, well crafted, insightful and (dare I hope?) with a loyal following. Read: a teensy bit famous.
Then I realized that the redo is going to take some work. Fame is not going to find me in my kitchen. Hey, I've heard of the 10,000 hours and I'm not getting any younger. Do I even have 10,000 hours?
The challenge here is maintaining insightful, well crafted, interesting etc. etc.
Should I share my experiences growing up in the wilds of Ontario in the olden days? Does anyone want to know about my year in a German convent boarding school? What about My Life as a Guest of the Government? Nice ring, that.
The problem with being even slightly autobiographical is that sooner or later you are going to embarrass the shit out of your family.
Then I thought, "Hey, I'm 66. In 66 years I should have learned something." So maybe I should write an advice column. But my advice would be mostly about silly, shallow things like buying a better bra or applying eye makeup. All you young things - lining your eyes with black eyeliner...it makes your eyes look smaller. Spend money on a good bra. Spend money on a bra. Column done.
Ah, politics! There's a nice can of worms to amuse myself with. The thing is: I don't want people to get mad at me RIGHT AWAY. We can save that for my 80"s.
Exercise guru? I could probably wing it but that would be too much like lying. My workout consists of two 25 minute walks a week on an indoor track.
Cooking? Child rearing? Book reviewer?
In the end this blog is going to be what it was. A bit of this and a bit of that. But I am older now so I think I will put a bit more of myself out there. My friends won't mind and the people who mind, well, they can just get over themselves.
5/17/2018
2/22/2015
A New Word
I'm an avid reader, and a good one, too. It's one of my little secret (and not so secret now that I'm blogging about it) snobberies. I've read a fair amount of trash -the better to tell what it is, my dear- but I also read some pretty good stuff. I love David Copperfield, The Cardinal, The Name of the Rose etc. However, just because I think Pax Brittania is riveting, anyone who loves Agatha Christie can't be all bad, can they?
Having confessed all this, you can better understand my pleasure when I discovered a totally new word! Not only was there this totally New Word but it was submersed in a paragraph with two other words of dubious meaning!!!! Are you with me? Are you feeling, albeit vicariously, the joy?
Otiose. That was it. I say again, otiose. What a lovely word! What a perfectly winning Scrabble vowel using word! What does it mean? Rush, rush to Google, the definer of all words ordinary, weird, and wonderful.
Useless. That's right, that's it, folks. Not having any practical purpose, in short, useless.
What a find! The next time I need to insult someone, but subtly,with that tiny vengeance seeking corner (second secret now out in the open) we ALL keep well tucked away from public scrutiny, I won't be so common as to whisper, "D***head." Instead, I shall say in a firm but necessarily quiet (just in case they've read this blog!)voice, "Otiose." Otiose, otiose. In and of itself, not otiose at all.
Cool.
Having confessed all this, you can better understand my pleasure when I discovered a totally new word! Not only was there this totally New Word but it was submersed in a paragraph with two other words of dubious meaning!!!! Are you with me? Are you feeling, albeit vicariously, the joy?
Otiose. That was it. I say again, otiose. What a lovely word! What a perfectly winning Scrabble vowel using word! What does it mean? Rush, rush to Google, the definer of all words ordinary, weird, and wonderful.
Useless. That's right, that's it, folks. Not having any practical purpose, in short, useless.
What a find! The next time I need to insult someone, but subtly,with that tiny vengeance seeking corner (second secret now out in the open) we ALL keep well tucked away from public scrutiny, I won't be so common as to whisper, "D***head." Instead, I shall say in a firm but necessarily quiet (just in case they've read this blog!)voice, "Otiose." Otiose, otiose. In and of itself, not otiose at all.
Cool.
12/23/2014
It's That Time Again!
Call me a slow learner, but every year I'm surprised when the last few days before Christmas happen! Up until last week, I had soooo much time. Look! There's still 2 weeks to go! Look! There's still 1 whole week! Oh no! There are only a few days left. Oh well. We survived dust and unpolished silverware last year so I'm sure it will be OK this year, too.
I'm just glad that we are not suffering from "cat in tree" this year.
A remarkable thing, the Christmas tree. Begun by the Druids, adopted by the Germanic tribes, brought to America by immigrants, brought to England by Prince Albert, brought to Chinese factories by heartless capitalists, brought to Charlie Brown by Charles Schulz and leaving a trail of fairy dust and happiness wherever it goes.
I simply love department store Christmas trees, so stately and untouched by commoner type ailments like scratches, mismatch and age (too young to be antiques, too old to be just "well used"). Things like grubby little fingers and wildly waving dog tails just don't happen in better stores!
But - you should never begin a sentence with but - a home Christmas tree has soul. All those kids to whom the grubby fingers belonged, all those long gone wild dogs, and tree climbing cats, all those memories, some good, some downright awful, are imbued in my tree and yours. All those decorations, some gorgeous, some just plain crappy, stuff to look at and think about, maybe cry a little.
That's why, all you old people, who are feeling weak and tired and thinking nobody is going to visit you anyway, so why make an effort? should do it anyway. Someone might come over and your tree will be the story, or maybe no one will and you can reread your own story made new every year by the magic of a tree.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from my tree to your homes!
I'm just glad that we are not suffering from "cat in tree" this year.
A remarkable thing, the Christmas tree. Begun by the Druids, adopted by the Germanic tribes, brought to America by immigrants, brought to England by Prince Albert, brought to Chinese factories by heartless capitalists, brought to Charlie Brown by Charles Schulz and leaving a trail of fairy dust and happiness wherever it goes.
I simply love department store Christmas trees, so stately and untouched by commoner type ailments like scratches, mismatch and age (too young to be antiques, too old to be just "well used"). Things like grubby little fingers and wildly waving dog tails just don't happen in better stores!
But - you should never begin a sentence with but - a home Christmas tree has soul. All those kids to whom the grubby fingers belonged, all those long gone wild dogs, and tree climbing cats, all those memories, some good, some downright awful, are imbued in my tree and yours. All those decorations, some gorgeous, some just plain crappy, stuff to look at and think about, maybe cry a little.
That's why, all you old people, who are feeling weak and tired and thinking nobody is going to visit you anyway, so why make an effort? should do it anyway. Someone might come over and your tree will be the story, or maybe no one will and you can reread your own story made new every year by the magic of a tree.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from my tree to your homes!
11/07/2014
This Break was too Long!
It's a good thing I don't try to write a book; it would take me years! After a few months of scribbling, I'd take a break of that many months and so on and so forth. It would probably take more than just years; it would take decades! Ergo, no book.
At least no book as in the traditional page after page of writing with "no peechers" as my small grandson says. After all, I am only in my early 60's; there's plenty of time to create something outstanding.
Ah, the arrogance of the early 60's. Still able to do everything with only the odd twinge to remind us that whoa! no longer 40! Still working, still under 5 medications a day, still able to wear those high heeled street shoes. There are losses, though. Whether we want to admit it or not, even now our numbers are lessening. Parents bury their children. Without being disrespectful, it's really really weird to see old people at their (let's face it, not so young at all) child's funeral. It seems such a skewing of the generational flow. It's like watching a row of dominoes fall except they don't because a whole section in the middle gets skipped over. Defying physics, somehow.
I know parents lose children all the time. At a certain age we can all say with heartfelt sincerity, "What a tragedy, such a terrible waste of a young life." When the old, old die, we say with equal sincerity, "It is not a tragedy, sad, yes, but so and so had a long life." It's that middle death that has me stymied. Too old to be tragic, too young to be old,.......... too close to home.
In fact, having reread this blog, I'm going to get in touch with my good friends at Shutterfly and see if I can't do something memorable after all with a minimum of writing and a folder full of peechers.
At least no book as in the traditional page after page of writing with "no peechers" as my small grandson says. After all, I am only in my early 60's; there's plenty of time to create something outstanding.
Ah, the arrogance of the early 60's. Still able to do everything with only the odd twinge to remind us that whoa! no longer 40! Still working, still under 5 medications a day, still able to wear those high heeled street shoes. There are losses, though. Whether we want to admit it or not, even now our numbers are lessening. Parents bury their children. Without being disrespectful, it's really really weird to see old people at their (let's face it, not so young at all) child's funeral. It seems such a skewing of the generational flow. It's like watching a row of dominoes fall except they don't because a whole section in the middle gets skipped over. Defying physics, somehow.
I know parents lose children all the time. At a certain age we can all say with heartfelt sincerity, "What a tragedy, such a terrible waste of a young life." When the old, old die, we say with equal sincerity, "It is not a tragedy, sad, yes, but so and so had a long life." It's that middle death that has me stymied. Too old to be tragic, too young to be old,.......... too close to home.
In fact, having reread this blog, I'm going to get in touch with my good friends at Shutterfly and see if I can't do something memorable after all with a minimum of writing and a folder full of peechers.
6/19/2014
Sticky Fingers and Shrill Voices
The house and the pets have breathed a sigh of relief but oh my, the house is empty. A two- and a four-year old have a way of using a lot of space, both physically and vocally!
Our backyard looks like a shanty town; a plastic shack, teeny tiny chairs, myriad trucks and toys as well as a collection of small green rakes grace the lawn. A miniature picnic table in the centre of a (trying to be) grove of apple trees actually looks as if it belongs. Well, the trees are miniature, too!
The patio door is decorated with chocolate cookie finger and/or tongue marks; who really cares? That's why they invented Mr. Clean and Scrubbing Bubbles. They are great for plastic food. A dash of SB in a sink full of hot water, add plastic food, and one forgotten crayon (boy, the melting point of crayons is low!) and all is cleaned up for round 2.
This is such a nice role for us to play. We are not parents, so we're free to indulge a bit. It's our house, so we get to make the rules: no eating in the living room. We can play the 'old' card: Oma needs to go to sleep, so you do, too!
How lovely to be admired: you got a haircut, Opa. How fortunate to be well enough to go to the park or bike riding with our little fans. How lucky we are that Opa can afford to be the go-to guy for shoes and sandals and that Oma & Opa can treat everyone to the zoo.
My growing up circumstances were just different enough that I remember life without a telephone. Our grandchildren will never remember life without Skype or Facetime. The inventors deserve every penny; they have given all long distance relatives great joy. Although, nothing can replace actual hugs and kisses. Blessed are grandparents and their connections to the future!
Our backyard looks like a shanty town; a plastic shack, teeny tiny chairs, myriad trucks and toys as well as a collection of small green rakes grace the lawn. A miniature picnic table in the centre of a (trying to be) grove of apple trees actually looks as if it belongs. Well, the trees are miniature, too!
The patio door is decorated with chocolate cookie finger and/or tongue marks; who really cares? That's why they invented Mr. Clean and Scrubbing Bubbles. They are great for plastic food. A dash of SB in a sink full of hot water, add plastic food, and one forgotten crayon (boy, the melting point of crayons is low!) and all is cleaned up for round 2.
This is such a nice role for us to play. We are not parents, so we're free to indulge a bit. It's our house, so we get to make the rules: no eating in the living room. We can play the 'old' card: Oma needs to go to sleep, so you do, too!
How lovely to be admired: you got a haircut, Opa. How fortunate to be well enough to go to the park or bike riding with our little fans. How lucky we are that Opa can afford to be the go-to guy for shoes and sandals and that Oma & Opa can treat everyone to the zoo.
My growing up circumstances were just different enough that I remember life without a telephone. Our grandchildren will never remember life without Skype or Facetime. The inventors deserve every penny; they have given all long distance relatives great joy. Although, nothing can replace actual hugs and kisses. Blessed are grandparents and their connections to the future!
5/31/2014
Dead Streets
I miss the sounds of summer; our streets and sidewalks are practically dead. All May long weekend I waited for someone, something to go by and really, nothing happened. We have had lovely evenings and it's a gorgeous Saturday again. Zip and nada for foot or 2 wheel traffic.
Remember Saturday mornings? Everyone who could, was out washing a car and the sidewalks were full of little kids learning to ride their bikes.
When my own children were small, the 'big kids' were busy showing off, to each other as well as the adults who looked askance at such recklessness. When my son joined the 'big kid' ranks, he became young Mr. Fixit, always fixing the bike he was busy demolishing by using it as a steeplechase horse. My daughters also lived on their bikes; it was how they got around. Their friends lived more than a (gasp!) kilometre away.
Summer meant outside: building forts, going for walks (watch for the bears), planting gardens, sleepovers in the tent trailer (come in if you think you hear a bear), playing at the school playground at 4 in the morning (just because you can, and it's getting light out), swimming and fishing. Tons of outside.
I've experienced summer in the city and in the bush. As far as kids go, there was essentially no difference. Everyone was sun starved and everyone went out.
I think we are still sun starved but now we are fearful. Fear has a way of gripping us by the throat and stifling everything. I do not believe that electronic devices are to blame for the epidemic of inside. Electronic devices are opiates; they quell our natural desire to do any thing other than use them and they have made our children more manageable. Fearing outside and its dangers, parents have turned to computers and their spinoffs to engage their children believing this keeps them safe.
I do not believe that the world is full of depraved people whose only mission in life is to kidnap my grandchildren but neither am I willing to send them out unsupervised just to test my theory.
Canada's children are so inactive and yet we have so much to offer. Should we then reverse test "Build it and they will come" meaning our parks and sidewalks, by "Demolish and they will scream."? Perhaps there is nothing so precious as the tree in the tree museum unless it is a bicycle mounted on a piece of sidewalk in the Outside Museum.
Remember Saturday mornings? Everyone who could, was out washing a car and the sidewalks were full of little kids learning to ride their bikes.
When my own children were small, the 'big kids' were busy showing off, to each other as well as the adults who looked askance at such recklessness. When my son joined the 'big kid' ranks, he became young Mr. Fixit, always fixing the bike he was busy demolishing by using it as a steeplechase horse. My daughters also lived on their bikes; it was how they got around. Their friends lived more than a (gasp!) kilometre away.
Summer meant outside: building forts, going for walks (watch for the bears), planting gardens, sleepovers in the tent trailer (come in if you think you hear a bear), playing at the school playground at 4 in the morning (just because you can, and it's getting light out), swimming and fishing. Tons of outside.
I've experienced summer in the city and in the bush. As far as kids go, there was essentially no difference. Everyone was sun starved and everyone went out.
I think we are still sun starved but now we are fearful. Fear has a way of gripping us by the throat and stifling everything. I do not believe that electronic devices are to blame for the epidemic of inside. Electronic devices are opiates; they quell our natural desire to do any thing other than use them and they have made our children more manageable. Fearing outside and its dangers, parents have turned to computers and their spinoffs to engage their children believing this keeps them safe.
I do not believe that the world is full of depraved people whose only mission in life is to kidnap my grandchildren but neither am I willing to send them out unsupervised just to test my theory.
Canada's children are so inactive and yet we have so much to offer. Should we then reverse test "Build it and they will come" meaning our parks and sidewalks, by "Demolish and they will scream."? Perhaps there is nothing so precious as the tree in the tree museum unless it is a bicycle mounted on a piece of sidewalk in the Outside Museum.
5/23/2014
A Pain in the Ass
First I was, then I wasn't, then I was, so here I am - writing about a pain in the ass. Ah, you all say, "Here it comes, things aren't as blissful as she would have us believe. She's going to tell us her true-love is really a pain in the ass." Or conversely, I'm supposed to tell you that I can be a pain in the ass. Which I can be, sometimes, but not now.
Well, you're wrong. I'm going to tell you that I had a pain in the ass. No, I did not get a divorce or otherwise poison my relatives. I actually had such a pain that I thought I would faint. I had this pain while sitting on the sofa, by myself, all alone at home and it lasted and lasted about 5 minutes. Five minutes is a very long time when you're, say, in labour or passing a kidney stone or being bitten by a dog or smashing your fingers with a hammer. By now, you know that 5 minutes is waaaay too long for a pain.
It went away.
I thought it must be that most unladylike of complaints: hemorrhoids.
It is not...........always.
Google is great. You can actually ask it: What are some causes of a pain in the ass? Just like that. No fancy medical terminology. Just calling a spade a spade.
Google says it is either PROCTALGIA FUGAX or LEVITOR ANI SYNDROME. So I had to look up all these words and parts of words and it is so much fun! ASS PAIN FLEETING or PELVIC MUSCLE PAIN SYNDROME. Can you believe it? Calling a pain in the ass an ass pain. Why not call measles 'little red dot disease'?
Imagine meeting Prince Charles and Camilla. "How's life been treating you?" "Well, I have proctalgia fugax." "You do? Congratulations!" as opposed to "How's life been treating you?" "Well, I have this huge pain in my ass..." and being whisked away by the protocol officer before you can warm up to your theme.
As much as it lends itself to not so tasteful jokes, not very many people admit this kind of pain to their doctors. Actually, there are a lot of sufferers and sometimes very good reasons for it. Still, it would have to get pretty awful before I'd tell my doctor; he's not always as serious as I'd like. In the meantime, all the articles say that once everything has been ruled out, it is quite a little mystery. Ass secrets. Proctalgia fugax everyone!
Well, you're wrong. I'm going to tell you that I had a pain in the ass. No, I did not get a divorce or otherwise poison my relatives. I actually had such a pain that I thought I would faint. I had this pain while sitting on the sofa, by myself, all alone at home and it lasted and lasted about 5 minutes. Five minutes is a very long time when you're, say, in labour or passing a kidney stone or being bitten by a dog or smashing your fingers with a hammer. By now, you know that 5 minutes is waaaay too long for a pain.
It went away.
I thought it must be that most unladylike of complaints: hemorrhoids.
It is not...........always.
Google is great. You can actually ask it: What are some causes of a pain in the ass? Just like that. No fancy medical terminology. Just calling a spade a spade.
Google says it is either PROCTALGIA FUGAX or LEVITOR ANI SYNDROME. So I had to look up all these words and parts of words and it is so much fun! ASS PAIN FLEETING or PELVIC MUSCLE PAIN SYNDROME. Can you believe it? Calling a pain in the ass an ass pain. Why not call measles 'little red dot disease'?
Imagine meeting Prince Charles and Camilla. "How's life been treating you?" "Well, I have proctalgia fugax." "You do? Congratulations!" as opposed to "How's life been treating you?" "Well, I have this huge pain in my ass..." and being whisked away by the protocol officer before you can warm up to your theme.
As much as it lends itself to not so tasteful jokes, not very many people admit this kind of pain to their doctors. Actually, there are a lot of sufferers and sometimes very good reasons for it. Still, it would have to get pretty awful before I'd tell my doctor; he's not always as serious as I'd like. In the meantime, all the articles say that once everything has been ruled out, it is quite a little mystery. Ass secrets. Proctalgia fugax everyone!
5/18/2014
Exercise, bah!
Everyone who knows me, knows
that I hate exercise. Absolutely loathe and despise it. I'd rather go to the
garden and pick worms. I do go to the garden and pick dandelions.
Everyone who knows me also
knows that I like to be on top of my game, mine and my true-love's. I know
that exercise is good for us. Do I not send my true-love to the gym twice a
week? Do I not send my true-love on the dog walk everyday?
Alas and alack! The benefits
of his exertions do not extend to me. However, his dog's pleading eyes do not
leave me unmoved, so I do, occasionally, whirl the beast around the block as
fast as we can go, reaping something positive along the way. I hope.
The difference between
walking inside the house and pretty much any where else, is truly amazing. In
the house, you never really stretch; it is the breeding ground for 'the old
person shuffle'. Yes, the mall is inside, but it's such a roomy inside, that it
might almost be outside! Granted, the mall is smoother than the sidewalk and
flatter than a hillside, but I'm more and more convinced that it's all about
the stretchy walking. Just letting those legs move along without being tripped
up by carpets and furniture appears to be the thing.I see this on family members, so I'm not talking through my hat. Having admitted as much, you will be seeing me on the dog walk more often. Except when it's cold and then I shall be at the mall.
5/06/2014
Observations & Flying
So, I just flew from one place to another place, and there are a few things I want to say.
Hey, well groomed mature guy with your nose so high in the air you can't see the 100 year old woman in front of you DRAGGING her bag: jerk.
To the middle aged woman in front of me: it's OK to comb your hair even if you did have to get up at 5. You do not look like a free spirit; you just look as if you have been in the spirits all night.
To the legging wearers who should take a look at their butts: look at your butt.
Skinny girl with the 6 inch heels: no, you cannot walk in those shoes. What you are doing is not walking; it's creeping, kind of, mixed with shuffling, with bent knees. The shoes look nice, though.
Woman in the beautiful blue top: all the clothes in the world are not going to improve the look of someone chewing gum with their mouth open, just chewing, chewing....
All of you carry-on carriers: it's carry on for God's sake, not a weight lifting contest. Trying to jam 2 weeks worth of stuff into 1 small(ish) suitcase, and wrestling it into the overhead bin isn't fair to the rest of us trying to make do with the 8 cubic inches left over.
No thanks to airport security. When I am really old and much braver, I'm going to organize an old person flash mob stripping down to their underwear....at security. What do you want to bet that line starts to zip along at speed!!!!
Also no thanks to an airline that flies around with no potable water, they say, so there is no tea or coffee. But wait....isn't that water being served? So, why, why? Never mind, it's just too confusing.
Thank you to my seatmate for doing his laundry and saving me from fainting fits brought on by BO. (That nearly happened once, no word of a lie.)
Thank you to the nice young family which did not cry the whole time. Just a teeny, tiny bit right at the end and I think, by that time, we were all ready to do the same.
Thank you to all the various people who make, you guessed it, people watching so interesting.
I am now ready to enjoy a city full of strangers and good food!
Hey, well groomed mature guy with your nose so high in the air you can't see the 100 year old woman in front of you DRAGGING her bag: jerk.
To the middle aged woman in front of me: it's OK to comb your hair even if you did have to get up at 5. You do not look like a free spirit; you just look as if you have been in the spirits all night.
To the legging wearers who should take a look at their butts: look at your butt.
Skinny girl with the 6 inch heels: no, you cannot walk in those shoes. What you are doing is not walking; it's creeping, kind of, mixed with shuffling, with bent knees. The shoes look nice, though.
Woman in the beautiful blue top: all the clothes in the world are not going to improve the look of someone chewing gum with their mouth open, just chewing, chewing....
All of you carry-on carriers: it's carry on for God's sake, not a weight lifting contest. Trying to jam 2 weeks worth of stuff into 1 small(ish) suitcase, and wrestling it into the overhead bin isn't fair to the rest of us trying to make do with the 8 cubic inches left over.
No thanks to airport security. When I am really old and much braver, I'm going to organize an old person flash mob stripping down to their underwear....at security. What do you want to bet that line starts to zip along at speed!!!!
Also no thanks to an airline that flies around with no potable water, they say, so there is no tea or coffee. But wait....isn't that water being served? So, why, why? Never mind, it's just too confusing.
Thank you to my seatmate for doing his laundry and saving me from fainting fits brought on by BO. (That nearly happened once, no word of a lie.)
Thank you to the nice young family which did not cry the whole time. Just a teeny, tiny bit right at the end and I think, by that time, we were all ready to do the same.
Thank you to all the various people who make, you guessed it, people watching so interesting.
I am now ready to enjoy a city full of strangers and good food!
4/30/2014
One Year Ago
Yesterday was the first anniversary of our father's death. I called my mother in the morning and she was surprisingly calm. Perhaps the rest of the day was different; I don't know. The call was uneventful, though, so I'm thankful.
Our father's dying was also uneventful, and, for the most part, calm. There had been one evening of confusion, of disorientation and extreme restlessness. That was the night he was hospitalized.
There was no lingering for days and weeks, no frail mother trekking to the hospital day after day. There was no agonising pain, no bedsores, no wailing in fear. Just tiredness and fading. Some response went to no response. In five days he was dead.
The manner of his death was a gift. There were no soul searching decisions to be made as there were no life support systems involved. No switches to be turned off, no plugs to be pulled. There was just him in the bed, just a person, no equipment, with his family. There was breath and then there was none. There was life and then... gone.
Actually, we were all a bit surprised. It was almost anticlimactic. When you've braced yourself for drama and it does not come to pass, well!
So, we stayed for a while and marvelled that the shell which had served him for 91 years now no longer contained him.
Last year, we welcomed a new baby into the family. Now there are 5 great grandchildren; they all have little bits of him in them. I think it's marvelous.
Our father's dying was also uneventful, and, for the most part, calm. There had been one evening of confusion, of disorientation and extreme restlessness. That was the night he was hospitalized.
There was no lingering for days and weeks, no frail mother trekking to the hospital day after day. There was no agonising pain, no bedsores, no wailing in fear. Just tiredness and fading. Some response went to no response. In five days he was dead.
The manner of his death was a gift. There were no soul searching decisions to be made as there were no life support systems involved. No switches to be turned off, no plugs to be pulled. There was just him in the bed, just a person, no equipment, with his family. There was breath and then there was none. There was life and then... gone.
Actually, we were all a bit surprised. It was almost anticlimactic. When you've braced yourself for drama and it does not come to pass, well!
So, we stayed for a while and marvelled that the shell which had served him for 91 years now no longer contained him.
Last year, we welcomed a new baby into the family. Now there are 5 great grandchildren; they all have little bits of him in them. I think it's marvelous.
4/24/2014
Junk vs Stuff
When does 'stuff' morph into 'junk'? When, indeed, do 'things' devolve into 'stuff'? Let's see.
We buy things which we either
1) need
or
2) think we need.
Then we either
1)use them
or
2)not.
Using them means we either
1)break the things
or
2)not.
If we break the things we either
1)throw them away
or
2)put them in the closet or basement and plan on fixing them.
This becomes 'junk'.
Not using the things means we either
1)put them in a closet
or
2)put them in the basement.
This is 'stuff'.
If we do not break the things and keep on using them we either
1)get sick and tired of looking at them
or
2)not.
If we are sick and tired of looking at them we either
1)put them in the closet
or
2)put them in the basement.
I believe this is also 'stuff'.
If we are still using original things then either
1)it's really good quality and we're really careful and we're cheap, cheap, cheap
or
2)it's really good quality and we're really careful and we love, love, love ....our dishes, for example.
If all this 'stuff' has been in a closet or the basement for 2? 3? years it, too, becomes 'junk'. If, however, it stays in the closet or basement for 20? 30? years it becomes 'vintage' and if your family can stand it and has space AND can hang onto all this old....old ???? for 100? 200?years it all becomes PRICELESS ANTIQUES. Unless the rats have got at it, and then it's just 'junk'.
We buy things which we either
1) need
or
2) think we need.
Then we either
1)use them
or
2)not.
Using them means we either
1)break the things
or
2)not.
If we break the things we either
1)throw them away
or
2)put them in the closet or basement and plan on fixing them.
This becomes 'junk'.
Not using the things means we either
1)put them in a closet
or
2)put them in the basement.
This is 'stuff'.
If we do not break the things and keep on using them we either
1)get sick and tired of looking at them
or
2)not.
If we are sick and tired of looking at them we either
1)put them in the closet
or
2)put them in the basement.
I believe this is also 'stuff'.
If we are still using original things then either
1)it's really good quality and we're really careful and we're cheap, cheap, cheap
or
2)it's really good quality and we're really careful and we love, love, love ....our dishes, for example.
If all this 'stuff' has been in a closet or the basement for 2? 3? years it, too, becomes 'junk'. If, however, it stays in the closet or basement for 20? 30? years it becomes 'vintage' and if your family can stand it and has space AND can hang onto all this old....old ???? for 100? 200?years it all becomes PRICELESS ANTIQUES. Unless the rats have got at it, and then it's just 'junk'.
4/19/2014
The Gift of Food
There must be a gazillion words already written about the gift of food but I would like to add my few.
On so many levels, the gift of food satisfies like no other. I think the original reason, in most cultures, was the sharing of a very precious commodity. The production of food, in many places, is a risky business, no guarantees. For a few years, I attempted to grow my own vegetables. Ha! Growing edible things is not quite as easy as the seed companies would have us believe. Thank goodness for grocery stores.
There was a time, however, when grocery stores didn't exist. There was a time, in England, of ONE HUNDRED YEARS of bad weather. Lots of disease, not a lot of food. Famine makes food the greatest gift of all. So, even here and now, no famine, we have this ancient memory and so preserve an ancient appreciation of gifts of food.
Giving a meal is so cool; the host or hostess has a chance to show off his or her skills without verbally bragging. What feeling can compare to that of presenting a platter full of deliciousness? If I had a million dollars and employed an army of caterers would I get the same thrill? I think not. The thrill would be of a different nature, pride of organization, pride of being able to afford professionals, but not the same thrill of hands-on creativity and, when you think about it, the sacrifice of time.
The giving of time is a big part of the gift of food; the shopping as well as the doing and the cleaning up after the doing. All this is a part of the gift and if the recipient of the gift does this as well, the more the gift will be appreciated.
I love the whole thing, including the hot, sweaty, panic-stricken moment when, for a wee bit of time, I think it will be a disaster. I have done this long enough that I can recognize the signs, and even warn my true-love that "I need to boss you around for 15 minutes!!!" It's all good. All part of the gift. All part of saying, "Hey, I like you. Let me give you food to prove it."
On so many levels, the gift of food satisfies like no other. I think the original reason, in most cultures, was the sharing of a very precious commodity. The production of food, in many places, is a risky business, no guarantees. For a few years, I attempted to grow my own vegetables. Ha! Growing edible things is not quite as easy as the seed companies would have us believe. Thank goodness for grocery stores.
There was a time, however, when grocery stores didn't exist. There was a time, in England, of ONE HUNDRED YEARS of bad weather. Lots of disease, not a lot of food. Famine makes food the greatest gift of all. So, even here and now, no famine, we have this ancient memory and so preserve an ancient appreciation of gifts of food.
Giving a meal is so cool; the host or hostess has a chance to show off his or her skills without verbally bragging. What feeling can compare to that of presenting a platter full of deliciousness? If I had a million dollars and employed an army of caterers would I get the same thrill? I think not. The thrill would be of a different nature, pride of organization, pride of being able to afford professionals, but not the same thrill of hands-on creativity and, when you think about it, the sacrifice of time.
The giving of time is a big part of the gift of food; the shopping as well as the doing and the cleaning up after the doing. All this is a part of the gift and if the recipient of the gift does this as well, the more the gift will be appreciated.
I love the whole thing, including the hot, sweaty, panic-stricken moment when, for a wee bit of time, I think it will be a disaster. I have done this long enough that I can recognize the signs, and even warn my true-love that "I need to boss you around for 15 minutes!!!" It's all good. All part of the gift. All part of saying, "Hey, I like you. Let me give you food to prove it."
4/15/2014
The Funeral was Lovely
When I was a young mother I disagreed with my neighbour's practice of taking her children to funerals. I have since changed my mind.
The funeral we attended on the weekend was lovely. The guest of honor was beautiful. She had chosen her own going away outfit, her daughters had arranged her hair, and her face bore no marks of pain. There was nothing to be repelled by, or frightened of. Au contraire, she looked better than she had in years.
The priest said traditional, comforting things. There were tears and laughter and much saying of nice things. There was a terrific turnout: youngish, middle aged, old, oxygen-toting nursing home residents, family et al. There was lunch.
There were children at the funeral; I applaud their parents' decision to bring them along. After all, the deceased had had a special relationship to the family and it was time to say goodbye.
If a kid is old enough to watch murder and mayhem on TV and play shoot 'em up video games then that same kid is old enough to learn to say 'farewell' properly. The deceased is not going to arise to do it all over again for "Take two!" This is death for real. Children need to learn that 'The Circle of Life' isn't just a song by Elton John.
The rest of us, too, need to be reminded that there is nothing grotesque or macabre about dying. The actual death, itself, may not always be kind and gentle, but the last act of our being with our loved ones is suitable for younger audiences, despite what some people may think.
The funeral we attended on the weekend was lovely. The guest of honor was beautiful. She had chosen her own going away outfit, her daughters had arranged her hair, and her face bore no marks of pain. There was nothing to be repelled by, or frightened of. Au contraire, she looked better than she had in years.
The priest said traditional, comforting things. There were tears and laughter and much saying of nice things. There was a terrific turnout: youngish, middle aged, old, oxygen-toting nursing home residents, family et al. There was lunch.
There were children at the funeral; I applaud their parents' decision to bring them along. After all, the deceased had had a special relationship to the family and it was time to say goodbye.
If a kid is old enough to watch murder and mayhem on TV and play shoot 'em up video games then that same kid is old enough to learn to say 'farewell' properly. The deceased is not going to arise to do it all over again for "Take two!" This is death for real. Children need to learn that 'The Circle of Life' isn't just a song by Elton John.
The rest of us, too, need to be reminded that there is nothing grotesque or macabre about dying. The actual death, itself, may not always be kind and gentle, but the last act of our being with our loved ones is suitable for younger audiences, despite what some people may think.
4/09/2014
We Move Along
'Finally, there is nothing between you and God.' This is not original; I read it somewhere, sometime and it has never gone away. Always lurking. Moving closer. Not just an intellectual exercise any more.
In life, my mother-in-law had a close and true friend. My mother-in-law is already long gone; her friend is recently so. As well as sympathizing with the family's loss, this person's death bothers me more than I care to admit.
We are moving up; we are moving along. Remember 'needle day'? Every one lined up for the health nurse and we moved along. In my experience, there was no way of getting out of that line; even the fainters got their shots. So, we moved along, then it was my turn and sometimes it wasn't so bad, after all. Move along, move along.
In a properly ordered world, the young, the middle-aged live. The old who live provide us with a measure of youth. Finally, reluctantly they die.
The entire preceding generation has provided, for my generation, a bulwark against The End, as we do for the following generation. For our children, there is a pretty solid wall between them and it. For me, every death of someone I've known is a small dismantling of the wall; every death of someone close to my family makes that dismantling just a little bit quicker.
For those of us who have lost a parent, a whole section of wall has come down. For those of us who have lost both, there is now no longer anything between us and old age. The illusion of youth has been totally stripped away. There is nothing between us and the void? the abyss? the rapture?
It is not as easy as I thought it would be: this getting comfortable with my aging. Actually, I have seen an abyss, and there is a river running through it. Rivers go somewhere. This will be my wishful End.
In life, my mother-in-law had a close and true friend. My mother-in-law is already long gone; her friend is recently so. As well as sympathizing with the family's loss, this person's death bothers me more than I care to admit.
We are moving up; we are moving along. Remember 'needle day'? Every one lined up for the health nurse and we moved along. In my experience, there was no way of getting out of that line; even the fainters got their shots. So, we moved along, then it was my turn and sometimes it wasn't so bad, after all. Move along, move along.
In a properly ordered world, the young, the middle-aged live. The old who live provide us with a measure of youth. Finally, reluctantly they die.
The entire preceding generation has provided, for my generation, a bulwark against The End, as we do for the following generation. For our children, there is a pretty solid wall between them and it. For me, every death of someone I've known is a small dismantling of the wall; every death of someone close to my family makes that dismantling just a little bit quicker.
For those of us who have lost a parent, a whole section of wall has come down. For those of us who have lost both, there is now no longer anything between us and old age. The illusion of youth has been totally stripped away. There is nothing between us and the void? the abyss? the rapture?
It is not as easy as I thought it would be: this getting comfortable with my aging. Actually, I have seen an abyss, and there is a river running through it. Rivers go somewhere. This will be my wishful End.
4/03/2014
Spring is Springing! (at last)
There's a fair bit of action in my back yard, but of course I should say 'our' back yard because that's only fair and right. I say 'my' because I do most of the work, excluding mowing. I have not mowed since 1988 and I see no reason to start now.
Getting back to the yard and the action thereof. The squirrels have been chasing each other around quite madly, providing huge excitement for the dogs on both sides of the fence. They, the dogs, have been sunning themselves on the deck or the last patches of snow depending on their levels of previous exertion.
The first grackles are back; the males are strutting around, puffing out their chests, "Look at me; I am so cool." while the ladies titter behind their fans.
The mourning doves have paid a visit to the decorator fence, just checking. Soon there will be a row of them sitting there, pretending to be minding their own business and when next I look up there will be a ball of feathers, as in a ball of feathers. This ball will disengage and separate into 3 birds. The one in the middle always gives herself a shake and says, "Well, that was exciting!"
A pair of robins are twittering at each other, one fly-dashing at the other, then he interrupts the courtship to chase away the competition. They resume their springtime dance. "Baby, baby, I love you." ♫ ♫
Astonishingly, the crocuses are peeking their brave little heads out. I want to shout, "Hurray, hurray!!!" but it wouldn't do for the neighbour children to hear a middle-aged lady lose her marbles (they think). So, I whisper, "Hurray, hurray!!!" and it's almost as good.
A few other green leafy things are poking their heads out, too. Being just a 'pretend' gardener, I haven't got a clue what they are but at this time of year 'Green is Good'. When the dandelions are threatening to take over, I will try to forget I said that!
The snow is disappearing rapidly; soon I will find out if the rhubarb survived. If it did, I'm changing my designation and dropping 'pretend'. I will henceforth call myself a Gardener. It will be the same as old actors finally getting the Lifetime Achievement Oscar. Well, almost the same. I'm much younger than Peter O'Toole.
Getting back to the yard and the action thereof. The squirrels have been chasing each other around quite madly, providing huge excitement for the dogs on both sides of the fence. They, the dogs, have been sunning themselves on the deck or the last patches of snow depending on their levels of previous exertion.
The first grackles are back; the males are strutting around, puffing out their chests, "Look at me; I am so cool." while the ladies titter behind their fans.
The mourning doves have paid a visit to the decorator fence, just checking. Soon there will be a row of them sitting there, pretending to be minding their own business and when next I look up there will be a ball of feathers, as in a ball of feathers. This ball will disengage and separate into 3 birds. The one in the middle always gives herself a shake and says, "Well, that was exciting!"
A pair of robins are twittering at each other, one fly-dashing at the other, then he interrupts the courtship to chase away the competition. They resume their springtime dance. "Baby, baby, I love you." ♫ ♫
Astonishingly, the crocuses are peeking their brave little heads out. I want to shout, "Hurray, hurray!!!" but it wouldn't do for the neighbour children to hear a middle-aged lady lose her marbles (they think). So, I whisper, "Hurray, hurray!!!" and it's almost as good.
A few other green leafy things are poking their heads out, too. Being just a 'pretend' gardener, I haven't got a clue what they are but at this time of year 'Green is Good'. When the dandelions are threatening to take over, I will try to forget I said that!
3/29/2014
I am a Snob
I confess: I am a snob. Not an everything snob, just a few things snob.
I love clean grocery stores. I will pay extra just to go there. I tried, I really did try to do my regular, everyday, basic-staples-in-the-pantry in a cut price, bargain store but it didn't work. After a few weeks, my eyes fastened on the dirty floors instead of the price tags and I just couldn't do it any more. Bring on the clean! bring on the bright!
My other snobbery is the Folio Society, a publishing house based in London (UK) specializing in beautiful books, the kind that could be passed down as heirlooms. It actually is relative to aging because it is relative to my aging. It's only in the last few years that I am comfortable spending that kind of money on a book and only then because I don't spend on other things. I don't 'do' clothes. I petted a $2000 dress several years ago but owning one is not on my bucket list. I don't 'do' jewelry, either. A few pretty things, mainly gifts from my family and my collection is complete.
So, that brings me back to the book. The Folio Society ships from England; that Royal Mail insignia is my first little thrill! Then, there's the wrapping. Those books are so safely cocooned for their trip across the Atlantic, I swear you could ship fine china in their boxes. Not only are the books not just overwrapped in paper, they are boxed and bubble wrapped and paper wrapped and that's before the shrink wrap which protects the slipcase.
Am I there yet?
Sometimes, the book is not revealed for days. Why not enjoy that Christmas present feeling for a while? When it is finally opened....what joy! what fun! Ah, the aroma of fine paper and quality ink! Or is it the aroma of quality paper and fine ink? All I know is that somehow a beautiful book embellishes even a really good story. The Hobbit was never so exciting in paperback.
It's possible that my snobby hobbies may come to an end soon but at this moment in time, I'm enjoying every trip to the clean, well-lit, superbly stocked grocery store and reading my members-only literary catalogue with my hand firmly on my credit card.
I love clean grocery stores. I will pay extra just to go there. I tried, I really did try to do my regular, everyday, basic-staples-in-the-pantry in a cut price, bargain store but it didn't work. After a few weeks, my eyes fastened on the dirty floors instead of the price tags and I just couldn't do it any more. Bring on the clean! bring on the bright!
My other snobbery is the Folio Society, a publishing house based in London (UK) specializing in beautiful books, the kind that could be passed down as heirlooms. It actually is relative to aging because it is relative to my aging. It's only in the last few years that I am comfortable spending that kind of money on a book and only then because I don't spend on other things. I don't 'do' clothes. I petted a $2000 dress several years ago but owning one is not on my bucket list. I don't 'do' jewelry, either. A few pretty things, mainly gifts from my family and my collection is complete.
So, that brings me back to the book. The Folio Society ships from England; that Royal Mail insignia is my first little thrill! Then, there's the wrapping. Those books are so safely cocooned for their trip across the Atlantic, I swear you could ship fine china in their boxes. Not only are the books not just overwrapped in paper, they are boxed and bubble wrapped and paper wrapped and that's before the shrink wrap which protects the slipcase.
Am I there yet?
 |
Just one of many treasures
|
Sometimes, the book is not revealed for days. Why not enjoy that Christmas present feeling for a while? When it is finally opened....what joy! what fun! Ah, the aroma of fine paper and quality ink! Or is it the aroma of quality paper and fine ink? All I know is that somehow a beautiful book embellishes even a really good story. The Hobbit was never so exciting in paperback.
It's possible that my snobby hobbies may come to an end soon but at this moment in time, I'm enjoying every trip to the clean, well-lit, superbly stocked grocery store and reading my members-only literary catalogue with my hand firmly on my credit card.
3/24/2014
Some Small Things of Loveliness
There are large things of loveliness like the Aurora Borealis, the enormous flocks of Canada Geese during migration, or the doctor telling you that you don't have cancer and then there are the small ones. The small ones are so plentiful, and sometimes so fleeting; we just have to remember to value them.
A bouquet of flowers a propos of nothing, just arriving out of the blue.
A manila envelope full of fridge art, from faraway grandchildren.
A sticky kiss embellished with runny nose from a sick toddler.
Being told by a complete stranger that you have magnificent eyebrows.
A bed filled with pets on an ice cold morning.
A freebie from the photo book people.
Finding a 5 times folded twenty dollar bill in the laundry.
Having a rhubarb harvest after 5 years of nothing.
Going for lunch with really nice people.
Holding hands with your true-love after 100 years of marriage!!!
(And so on....)
Your list won't be the same as mine and that's OK. However, please make a list even if you keep it only in your head. Just make sure that you can pull it out periodically and look at and add to it. You might be pleasantly surprised at the number of treasures you actually have.
A bouquet of flowers a propos of nothing, just arriving out of the blue.
A sticky kiss embellished with runny nose from a sick toddler.
Being told by a complete stranger that you have magnificent eyebrows.
A bed filled with pets on an ice cold morning.
A freebie from the photo book people.
Finding a 5 times folded twenty dollar bill in the laundry.
Having a rhubarb harvest after 5 years of nothing.
Going for lunch with really nice people.
Holding hands with your true-love after 100 years of marriage!!!
(And so on....)
Your list won't be the same as mine and that's OK. However, please make a list even if you keep it only in your head. Just make sure that you can pull it out periodically and look at and add to it. You might be pleasantly surprised at the number of treasures you actually have.
3/20/2014
Rilla of Ingleside
I'm reading a WW1 book called 'The Middle Parts of Fortune" by Frederic Manning. I'm reading it very slowly because I really don't want to know who dies in the end. It is a very slow, sad book and I'm so glad I discovered it.
There are now three and a half WW1 books in my library. This one, 'All Quiet on the Western Front' by Erich Maria Remarque, parts of Ernest Hemingway's 'Collected Short Stories' and 'Rilla of Ingleside' by LM Montgomery.
'Rilla of Ingleside' is quite possibly the most understated Canadian book ever written. It remains half hidden as young adult fiction for girls, or obscure Canadiana, never shouted from the rooftops as wow! reading.
When I first read it, in 1974, I was already a huge fan of Montgomery's Anne and only 23 myself, not too old to turn my nose up at a teenaged heroine. My gain.
This book should be on reading lists everywhere; it is the face of civilian stoicism and unremarked upon heroism in a time of war. It is a chronology of maturing. It is without flash and dash. It could be a companion to 'Gone with the Wind', it's flip side, so to speak.
Just as Pearl Buck (The Good Earth) spoke for China all those years ago, so LM Montgomery spoke for small town Canada and though her focus was Ontario and points east, I don't think that small towns differ all that much. Where there is adversity, there is a rallying spirit.
Where there is a challenge, there are hidden depths.
True, Rilla will always appeal more to girls and women, but if boys and men read it they might find girls and women easier to understand. If young people read it, they might find themelves beginning to understand sacrifice. Not the obvious kind of shattered bodies and minds but the silent kind of growing up too fast and grieving for one's parents grief.
I do believe I've read this book 10 times, and in this year, the 100th anniversary of that war, I will read it again.
'Rilla of Ingleside' is quite possibly the most understated Canadian book ever written. It remains half hidden as young adult fiction for girls, or obscure Canadiana, never shouted from the rooftops as wow! reading.
This book should be on reading lists everywhere; it is the face of civilian stoicism and unremarked upon heroism in a time of war. It is a chronology of maturing. It is without flash and dash. It could be a companion to 'Gone with the Wind', it's flip side, so to speak.
Just as Pearl Buck (The Good Earth) spoke for China all those years ago, so LM Montgomery spoke for small town Canada and though her focus was Ontario and points east, I don't think that small towns differ all that much. Where there is adversity, there is a rallying spirit.
Where there is a challenge, there are hidden depths.
True, Rilla will always appeal more to girls and women, but if boys and men read it they might find girls and women easier to understand. If young people read it, they might find themelves beginning to understand sacrifice. Not the obvious kind of shattered bodies and minds but the silent kind of growing up too fast and grieving for one's parents grief.
I do believe I've read this book 10 times, and in this year, the 100th anniversary of that war, I will read it again.
3/16/2014
That Damned Grocery Bill!
This is not a food blog! However, periodically, it could be a blog about food. Like today.
When the today grocery bill for 2 people is higher than the 4 people bill of 15 years ago, and the 2 people involved are gong to retire soon, I think it's time to be bold and start looking at different ways of cooking. The funny thing is that an awful lot of old becomes new again.
My hobbyhorse has become legumes and pulses. Legumes are the plants and pulses are.....the little bits that we eat. You thought I was going to go on about perfume points!
Pulses include peas, beans and lentils, and we have been eating them for 13,000 years! Isn't that exciting?
As a tidbit, the Lebanese introduced lentils to Canada around the time of the depression. While the drought was killing off our wheat, it was providing some very good growing conditions for this little nutritious powerhouse. As a result, Canada is now the world's leading exporter of lentils and Saskatchewan (the province that's so easy to draw and so hard to spell) is the leader of the pack.
I'm so surprised that the legume/pulse section of most grocery stores is so small. I'm also disappointed that there isn't a recipe section close by to teach people what to do with all that lusciousness lying around, practically free.
As an FYI, there's a website for lentils: lentils.ca which has all kinds of recipes, and some great blogs: onehotstove.blogspot.ca , for example.
We need to be bolder and take our tummies to places they have never gone before....vegetarian cooking, back to Lebanon and Asia. Actually, older German cookbooks have generous numbers of pea & bean recipes.
Not to forget homemade pork and beans and the recipe for that is on the back of the haricot bean package.
I don't deny that some of these recipes are a little bit fiddley but that's the beauty of retirement; we're supposed to have more time to spend on the important things. In my life, cooking is a fun activity, so it's not as challenging to seek new food worlds as it would be for someone who sees cooking as a chore. So, realigning chore↓ and cooking↓ to cooking↑ and fun↑ might be one of the first priorities of retirement.
Let's cook great things and share them with our friends and family and talk about people who have way too much spare time and spend it blogging.
When the today grocery bill for 2 people is higher than the 4 people bill of 15 years ago, and the 2 people involved are gong to retire soon, I think it's time to be bold and start looking at different ways of cooking. The funny thing is that an awful lot of old becomes new again.
My hobbyhorse has become legumes and pulses. Legumes are the plants and pulses are.....the little bits that we eat. You thought I was going to go on about perfume points!
Pulses include peas, beans and lentils, and we have been eating them for 13,000 years! Isn't that exciting?
As a tidbit, the Lebanese introduced lentils to Canada around the time of the depression. While the drought was killing off our wheat, it was providing some very good growing conditions for this little nutritious powerhouse. As a result, Canada is now the world's leading exporter of lentils and Saskatchewan (the province that's so easy to draw and so hard to spell) is the leader of the pack.
I'm so surprised that the legume/pulse section of most grocery stores is so small. I'm also disappointed that there isn't a recipe section close by to teach people what to do with all that lusciousness lying around, practically free.
As an FYI, there's a website for lentils: lentils.ca which has all kinds of recipes, and some great blogs: onehotstove.blogspot.ca , for example.
We need to be bolder and take our tummies to places they have never gone before....vegetarian cooking, back to Lebanon and Asia. Actually, older German cookbooks have generous numbers of pea & bean recipes.
Not to forget homemade pork and beans and the recipe for that is on the back of the haricot bean package.
I don't deny that some of these recipes are a little bit fiddley but that's the beauty of retirement; we're supposed to have more time to spend on the important things. In my life, cooking is a fun activity, so it's not as challenging to seek new food worlds as it would be for someone who sees cooking as a chore. So, realigning chore↓ and cooking↓ to cooking↑ and fun↑ might be one of the first priorities of retirement.
Let's cook great things and share them with our friends and family and talk about people who have way too much spare time and spend it blogging.
3/13/2014
Dentist Day
Today was dentist day. It is (a tiny bit) thrilling to be able to say that I am no longer terrified of the dentist. While going to the clinic is not something I would rather do than, say, go out for lunch, it is now something I would rather do than shovel manure.
Everyone there is very friendly. Of course they are all fixated on flossing so we have reached a small agreement; no one asks me if I floss daily and I do not lie. The dentists have adopted a cat; it makes for nice easy conversation.
The dental office of my childhood was the stuff of nightmares...the black chair, the mysterious drawers full of torturing instruments, the gigantic needles. My childhood dental visits were not 'a good time'.
Things improved somewhat when the old dentist retired but unlike him my fears did not; they grew into a nerve bending phobia. Visits to any DDS were preceded by days of emotional upheaval.
Things change. Suffice it to say that the most horrible happened and I survived. Tada! Cured! Fears banished!
My favourite dentist movie is 'Little Shop of Horrors'. Remember Steve Martin as the sadistic dentist? Remember Bill Murray as the masochistic patient? My favourite dentist question is: Who would you rather marry? A dentist or a hairdresser? I don't believe there is a dentist song.
The good thing about the aging mouth is that there aren't as many cavities. The not so good is that there is always maintenance. At least now my visits are calm ones.
Everyone there is very friendly. Of course they are all fixated on flossing so we have reached a small agreement; no one asks me if I floss daily and I do not lie. The dentists have adopted a cat; it makes for nice easy conversation.
The dental office of my childhood was the stuff of nightmares...the black chair, the mysterious drawers full of torturing instruments, the gigantic needles. My childhood dental visits were not 'a good time'.
Things change. Suffice it to say that the most horrible happened and I survived. Tada! Cured! Fears banished!
My favourite dentist movie is 'Little Shop of Horrors'. Remember Steve Martin as the sadistic dentist? Remember Bill Murray as the masochistic patient? My favourite dentist question is: Who would you rather marry? A dentist or a hairdresser? I don't believe there is a dentist song.
The good thing about the aging mouth is that there aren't as many cavities. The not so good is that there is always maintenance. At least now my visits are calm ones.
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